


Sweet Unrest

by wingedrascal



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Rimming, Smut, Suit Kink, Tattoos, Vague Hints of Plot, straight razor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1592297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedrascal/pseuds/wingedrascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is a workaholic. Bond is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Unrest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brianaphora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brianaphora/gifts).



> I wrote this little ditty to welcome a new member to the 00Q fandom. My ever-wonderful beta/best friend/internet wife/personal Jawn has entered the glorious world of spies and their cheeky quartermasters. Welcome!

Q had a problem.

More specifically, he had a blond-haired, blue-eyed devil of a problem. Q blinked, and then scrubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses over his knuckles. It was no good; when he replaced them, his hallucination was still there.

He knew it was a hallucination because it was currently 3:17 in the morning, and no one, not even James Bloody Bond, could look _that_ good at 3:17 in the morning. He was wearing one of his infamous suits. It was cut close to the body, with knife-edge crisp lines that ached to be mussed. Q dragged his eyes up from the trouser legs and slim waist to the man’s shoulders; the suit was cut just a hair too snug there, showing off the breadth of muscle, as if the tailor was as enamored with that particular body part as Q, himself, was. A little farther up was a knowing smirk, and hooded eyes, just a sliver of blue that looked cold enough to burn.

“Hello, Q,” said his hallucination.

“Hello, Bond.” It doesn’t hurt to be polite, even to a hallucination. Not even if a person is currently wondering if his brain will next conjure up a naked James Bond. Or a wet, naked James Bond. Or a kneeling, wet, naked James Bond.

“Shouldn’t you be on a mission?” Q murmured.

“I am,” Bond said, and came through the doorway where he’d been posed. “Mallory tells me that you’ve been on the clock for four straight days. People are starting to worry, Q.” Bond gave him a blatant once-over, and leaned a hip against the desk. “Frankly, I can’t understand why. I’ve never seen you look better.”

Q caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of his monitor, and scowled. His cardigan and tie had long ago been abandoned. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and crumpled beyond recognition, and his hair was stuck in handful-shaped clumps atop his head. He scratched at his chin, where itchy stubble had started to come in.

And then it hit him. This was no hallucination. Because he was a mess, he’d been in his office for four days, it was 3:18 in the morning, and _of course_ James Bloody Bond could look that good at 3:18 in the morning.

Q turned five shades of red, and stood up. He grabbed a random pile of papers from his desk, just to fill his hands, and cleared his throat.

“So Mallory sent you to check up on me?”

Bond hummed. “Seems everyone else was too scared to come and tell you to go home.”

Q snarled. Bond chuckled. The sound went right through Q’s ears and settled somewhere in the region of his trouser zip. He swallowed. 

“Can’t imagine why anyone would be afraid of my dear Quartermaster.”

At that, both men grinned. Four days ago, Q branch had hacked the personal computer of a leading player in a human trafficking operation. The destruction that the Quartermaster had wrought was currently the topic of every hushed lunch conversation in MI6. Q ran a hand through his hair, and lost his smile.

“I didn’t finish it. One got away.” He motioned to the mess surrounding his desk, dropping the papers in defeat. “He’s either killed himself in the most thorough manner possible, or he’s better than even you are at going off-grid. Four days, and I haven’t had eyes on him once.” 

“The mission was successful. The group’s operations were completely ended, and every single camp they’d set up was found. All of the people they’d kidnapped were released.” Bond recited the details back to him, as though Q didn’t know the results of his own mission.

“That man was one of the worst of the bunch. Specialized in ‘breaking in’ child prostitutes.” Q looked up at Bond helplessly. “He didn’t deserve to get away.”

Bond opened the door.

“You’ll think better after a night off, Q.”

“I’ll leave shortly.”

Bond shook his head. “I’ve been ordered to escort you home.”

“Mallory doesn’t trust me?”

Bond, wisely, did not answer. Q bristled.

“And just what does he think you’re going to do if I refuse?”

Bond’s lazy smile returned.

“I’m cleared to use whatever means necessary.”

“Hmph. I know for a fact that you do not currently have any of my guns. And I haven’t made you anything explosive lately. I suppose you could probably overpower me in a hand to hand combat, but I do have home court advantage, not to mention—”

Q was cut off by Bond’s mouth. The man leaned forward, slipped his hands around Q’s neck, and pressed their lips firmly together. Q gasped in surprise, and Bond took advantage of the moment by slipping his tongue into Q’s mouth. They stood there, connected by their lips and tongues and a bit of teeth, until Q came back to himself long enough to lower his hands from where they’d been waving in the air, and press against Bond’s shoulders. Bond laughed at him.

“Your brain always goes straight to violence, Q. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

“So you’re going to pull the other infamous James Bond move, and seduce me home?”

“I guess you’ll have to come home to find out.” The husky timbre in Bond’s voice made Q shiver, and Bond nipped at his lip while he caught his breath. Q’s hands wandered the shoulders he’d been admiring earlier, running up from the tops of strong biceps, over the curve of bone, and dipping long fingers into the space underneath Bond’s collar. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped, and took a step back. 

Bond’s lips were slick and red, and Q didn’t even remember doing that. 

“I need to keep working,” Q said.

“You are not doing anyone any help here. Four days without sleep is enough to make anyone lose their edge, even the Quartermaster of MI6.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Adrenaline. I’m familiar with it. But trust me.” Bond leaned in again, this time to Q’s ear. His cheek against Q’s stubble was fascinatingly smooth. Q’s jaw rubbed a slow line against Bond’s, and he could smell something that reminded him of a dark forest…musk and trees. Aftershave. But underneath, the unmistakable note of gunpowder that smelled, to Q, like home more than anything. He took another breath, and found Bond’s ear with his nose. His fingers had resumed their roaming, this time following the lines of that damnable suit down Bond’s chest, tracing his waist.

“Come home, Q,” Bond murmured. “I promise that you’ll be much more productive after some sleep. And I also promise to help you get rid of that adrenaline.”

Q paused where he was nuzzling— _nuzzling—he was nuzzling one of his agents, in his office, at work_. He stepped back more firmly this time and said,

“Excuse me, 007. It seems that the lack of sleep really has gotten to me.”

Bond studied him. “You don’t ever crack, do you?”

“I’m the head of an MI6 department, what do you think?” Q gathered his things, and turned off his computer. Bond stepped right up against him when he left the office, and placed a hand on the small of his back. 

“I wonder what it would take,” he said, so quietly that Q wasn’t even sure he had heard it. As they climbed into Bond’s car and left the parking garage, he ran every single scenario through his mind:

1\. He could let Bond seduce him. It would probably be the hottest sex Q would ever have, and then their working relationship would be utterly destroyed. Q would never again have the meagre thimble-full of respect he’d earned since they’d started working together.

2\. He could somehow find the strength to turn Bond away. He could take a shower, climb into his bed, and sleep like the dead for a day or so. Then he’d go back to work and write the events of earlier off as a delusional moment under duress of severe lack of sleep.

3\. He could open the door to his flat, push Bond against the wall, drop to his knees, and suck the man off till he knotted his fingers in Q’s hair and murmured his name in that sexy, husky, smug voice of his. Then he could strip him out of that suit, one piece at a time, and run his tongue over every scar on Bond’s body until they were both hard and leaking. Then he’d reach down and line them up just right, and—

“Are you alright, Q?”

Q looked down, where his fingers were clutching at his knees so tightly that they’d gone white. He shook his head, and then said,

“Just thinking about work. It must be catching up with me.” He looked out of the window and frowned. “How do you know where I live?”

Bond had driven to precisely the right nondescript neighbourhood, to precisely the right nondescript street, with it’s row of identical brick-face buildings and patches of brown grass that pretended to pass for lawns. Bond pulled into the right parking garage, and Q glared at him.

“Has Mallory just let you have free rein with my file? I suppose you know everything about me, now?”

“Not everything,” Bond said. He parked, and turned in his seat to face Q. His eyes roamed over Q’s chest, and his arms, still bare underneath rolled sleeves. “For example, I have no idea what your real name is.”

“It’s Q,” Q said flatly. Bond smiled, as though the answer was exactly what he wanted to hear.

“What else would it be?” he said.

Q led him up the stairs to the third floor. Presumably, the stairs were meant to give him time to think, but he found himself staring at the door to his flat with no more idea of what to do than before. He said,

“I assume you were told to be personally sure that I went to bed.”

“Hmm. About that.” Bond reached around Q, pushing the key into the lock the rest of the way, and opening the door. They stepped into Q’s flat together, and the door shut behind Bond.

“I lied,” he said.

“What?”

“Mallory had nothing to do with this.”

Q turned to face Bond, who was looking downright sheepish.

“You said people were worried.”

“Did I? I must have misspoke. I meant person. A person was worried. Namely, me.”

“You were worried about me.” Q repeated the statement back, confused. 

“You’re brilliant, Q, but even genius needs sleep. And I need my Quartermaster in working order.”

Q shook his head, and leaned against the wall. Bond continued,

“I admit that I might have taken it a little far. I had only intended to drive you home. But you just looked so…disheveled.”

“Wait.” Q blinked, and looked at the ridiculously-sexy-for-nearly-four-AM man in his entryway. “That…the kissing…wasn’t an act to get me to come home?”

Bond just gave him another smile, and then strolled into the living room. He looked around. Q watched from where he was leaning; he felt no need to offer a tour. The flat was as impersonal as everything else about Q’s personal life. The art on the walls had been chosen to look as boring and tasteless as possible. The furniture was only passably comfortable. There weren’t any electronics other than a small telly and a DVD player in the corner. Everything about this place screamed _the-Quartermaster-of-MI6-definitely-doesn’t-live-here_. 

“Not much for bringing your work home?” Bond asked. Q snorted.

“Not much for coming home at all. The couch in my office is much nicer than this one.”

“I hope your bed is comfortable.”

Q straightened, and looked at Bond.

“What, exactly, is happening?”

“That depends on you. If you prefer, I will tuck you into bed, and leave, satisfied in knowing that you are getting some rest. We’ll never speak of what happened in your office, and Mallory will think that you finally decided to take care of yourself on your own.”

Q swallowed. “Or?”

From across the room, he could see the glint in those deadly blue eyes.

“Or, you can tell me what you were really thinking about in the car.”

~

Q decided that his problem was not James Bond. It was that he himself simply had too much imagination.

It had always served him well in the past; that was, ultimately, how he had earned his job. Programming took a lot more of it than people knew, and it was Q’s ability to think outside that box that had caught M’s attention. Boothroyd had been harder to convince. The old quartermaster hadn’t seen the value in hacking and computer surveillance, not as much as building invisible cars or exploding pens. But Q had found applying himself to weaponry and gadgets equally as fun, and he’d worked his way up to “R” quite quickly, to his immense satisfaction.

Standing in his living room, watching Bond peel off his suit jacket and remove his cuff links, Q felt anything but satisfied with his stupid imagination. It kept leading him down paths where Bond took off the rest of his clothing; or, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he stayed just like that, all sharp, close-fitting lines, and let Q undo the buttons of that pristine shirt with his teeth.

“Well?” Bond said.

Q blushed, and then frantically searched himself for the cool professional face that he usually wore. Sleep was, apparently, an important factor in maintaining that face.

“I’m not sober,” he mumbled. Bond raised an eyebrow at him.

“I meant the lack of sleep,” Q said. “I can’t believe I’m actually entertaining the notion of becoming another notch on the Bond bedpost.” He bit his lip, and forced himself to take a breath before he said anything nasty about how non-existent the bedpost must be after so much carving. That wasn’t fair.

“Just.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “Just, let me clean up. I’ll think better after a shower.”

“Good idea. I’ll help.”

Q’s bathroom was tiny. Bond rummaged through the medicine cabinet while Q turned on the shower and fiddled with the temperature.

He turned back to Bond, who was smirking at him in the glass.

“A straight razor, Q? I wouldn’t have taken you for the type.”

“A man doesn’t have to be a philistine to appreciate the classics,” Q retorted. He scratched at the stubble on his chin again, and then crossed his arms.

“A little privacy, please?”

Bond rolled his eyes.

“Fine, but I’m coming back in. Someone has to make sure you don’t drown.”

“I’m sure that’s your only motivation.”

Bond chuckled at him, and left. Q undressed quickly, leaving his clothes in a heap in the corner, and pulled the shower curtain closed behind him. He set his glasses down on the ledge, and leaned his head back. The water trickled down in a hot mist, doing nothing more than leave droplets on the ends of his curls. 

“Remind to move to a place with better water pressure,” he said when Bond opened the door. There was no answer, but Q could hear him rummaging the cabinet again.

“Are you looking for my secret stash of pills or something?”

“Just setting up.”

That sounded ominous. Q hurriedly washed his hair, and rinsed the soap out of his eyes. He fumbled to turn the water off, and found his glasses. Then he realised that he had a new problem.

Well. Someone had to find out, he supposed.

He reached out of the shower with one arm, and snagged the towel hanging on the hook. After he’d scrubbed most of the water from his hair, he wrapped it around his waist, and found his courage.

Bond was leaning against the sink with his arms crossed. He had rolled up his sleeves, and the hair on his arms had caught a few drops of steam from the shower. His eyes widened almost comically when Q stepped out of the bath.

“Go ahead,” Q said. “I know you’re dying to comment.”

“Always full of surprises, Quartermaster.” 

His eyes traced the ink that covered Q’s upper arms, disappearing over his shoulders in artistic swirls that promised more. Down further, right above his iliac crest, it curled around to the front again, ending neatly where a thin trail of dark hair stretched between his navel and the towel. Directly over his heart was a stylized compass rose, all of it standing out in stark black-and-grey detail against his pale skin.

“What, no disparaging remark?” Q tightened the towel around his waist.

Bond gave him a look that was all heat and said,

“A man doesn’t have to be a technophile to appreciate new things.” He reached out and grasped Q’s arm, and maneuvered him to sit on the edge of the sink. Then Q noticed the row of things Bond had laid out: his razor, a bowl of hot water, a few towels, shaving cream.

“You’re not planning to—”

“Oh yes, I am.” And then Bond was kissing him again, his lips soft and a little slick from the steam. He kept his hands planted on either side of Q, and licked the seam of Q’s mouth till he opened.

“Bond,” Q said, but he didn’t get any farther. Bond sucked Q’s tongue in an entirely filthy manner, and Q promptly forgot how to speak words. Bond stepped in closer, forcing Q’s legs to open wider, and pressed their chests together. Bond’s shirt was soft against Q’s skin, and calloused fingers explored the curve of Q’s shoulder blades. Q licked Bond’s tongue, and then bit down, and the resulting grunt was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. Bond gave him another long, closed mouth kiss, and then stepped back. Q was breathing heavily, and trying to memorize everything about the way Bond looked at that moment; white shirt gone transparent where it had pressed against Q’s wet skin, and lips swollen. 

Bond looked down, and then smirked. Remembering that he was only wearing a thin towel, Q decided that if he it was possible to die of lack of sleep, it would be preferable to this. He blushed hotly, and fidgeted on the sink.

“Much as I like seeing you like this,” Bond said, running fingers over Q’s chin, “I prefer my usual, cheeky, buttoned-up Quartermaster.” He held up a brush. “May I?”

Q nodded, and Bond stepped in again. He spread the cream carefully over Q’s jaw, and then put aside the bowl and brush. He turned the razor over in his hands carefully; the instrument had never looked so much like a weapon before. Q closed his eyes.

The first drag over his cheek startled him. Bond placed his other hand gently underneath Q’s jaw, and after that it was easier. They found a certain rhythm, where Bond would carefully pull the blade across Q’s skin; Q would breathe out softly; Bond would dip the razor in water, and wipe it clean; Q would breathe in; and then Bond would be back, poised with a sharp instrument over sensitive flesh. Bond’s fingers traced each newly-shaved area, leaving behind gooseflesh and blushing skin. When he reached Q’s neck, and had the razor flush against his heartbeat, Bond paused. The deadliest MI6 agent to ever grace England was holding a knife to his throat, and Q just said,

“Go ahead.”

Q decided that he must be absolutely mad.

When his neck was clean, Bond let the razor sit in the bowl of water, and dried his hands. Q, still lulled by the long moments of deep breathing, kept his head titled against the mirror, and watched Bond through his eyelashes.

“There you are,” Bond murmured.

In a low, careful voice, Q said, “I still don’t quite know what is going on. You’ve never shown interest in me before.”

“Neither have you,” Bond countered. 

“True. So why now?”

Bond suddenly had that sheepish look again; his eyes crinkled around the edges, and his mouth curled into a crooked smile.

“To be blunt, Q, it took me this long to figure it out myself. The realisation might have had something to do with watching you nearly kill yourself to complete a mission already considered a success.”

Q blinked at him stupidly. Instead of explaining further, Bond dug his thumbs into the hollows of Q’s hips above the towel.

“And you?” he asked. “Why now?”

“I don’t suppose I can just say I was too tired to fight you off?”

Bond leaned in and bit his neck.

“Not a chance,” he said.

“You have to understand that my job is very, very important to me. I was only partially joking when I said my name is Q. It’s who I am.”

“If there’s anyone who could possibly understand,” Bond said, but Q shook his head above him.

“You may be one of the few who would understand, but you are also the very one who could bring it all down around my ears if I took a step outside the lines of propriety.”

“It’s the same for me. I’ve been retired more times than I can count, and every month, M is sending more and more jobs to Q branch, and sending out less and less field agents. If anyone is in danger of being forced out, it’s not you.”

Q looked at Bond. He was being completely honest. There was no smooth accent of seduction in his voice, and his face had lost it’s bedroom-eyed look. His fingers toyed with the edge of the towel, and Q took a breath. He craned his neck forward and brushed his nose against Bond’s.

“I wouldn’t particularly care to work without you,” he whispered.

“Knew I was your favorite.”

“If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

“You know who they’ll believe.”

“I’ll send you on your next mission with a paper clip.”

Bond leaned back and considered that a moment.

“An exploding paper clip?”

Q laughed, and kissed him.

~

The bedroom was across the hall, and Bond wasted no time getting Q to lead the way. When he first turned his back, he heard Bond’s low sound of surprise. His back was the real work of art, he knew. A flame fractal, created mathematically and then inked into his skin over a period of several months, covered him from shoulders to hip. Bond tugged the towel away, and let it fall to the floor. Q blushed, but held still while Bond traced the lines, and then unashamedly cupped his arse.

“Lovely,” Bond said, and Q almost snorted at the obvious obscurity of the compliment. Bond kissed his shoulder, and peeked over his chest.

“ _Very_ lovely.”

Q turned around, and twined his fingers into the knot of Bond’s tie. He tugged, and the whole thing slithered apart. He dropped it on the floor, and attacked the top two buttons of the shirt next. When Bond’s neck was exposed, he kissed it softly.

“I can’t decide if I’d rather have you in the suit or out of it,” he said against the golden skin. 

Hands skimmed his arms.

“I like you out of the cardigans. You can throw them all away.” 

“We can’t all wear bespoke suits, Bond.”

“James,” he said in Q’s ear. “And I’ll buy you a suit.”

Then his tongue went to work, tracing the lobe before sucking on it, and Q nearly melted. He scrabbled at buttons beneath his fingers, suddenly needing to have nothing between them. Bond— _James_ pulled him by his waist till their bodies were flush, and Q’s cock was pressed against the answering bulge in James’ trousers. Q groaned, and rocked his hips forward. His mouth latched on to the first patch of skin he found, which happened to be the dip of a collarbone. He flattened his tongue to lick a thick stripe over it, and then bit down.  
James swore, and his hips jerked forward in the most delicious manner. Q did it again, and met the jerk with a thrust of his own. Both men groaned at the friction, and James panted,

“Bed?”

“Clothes first,” Q said.

James toed off his shoes, and then helped Q strip off the rest of the shirt. His belt went next. Q undid the clasp and zip, and then took a step back.

James stood, shirtless and looking like the God of Death and Destruction. Where there weren’t scars, there were tight muscles, and where there weren’t muscles, there was lightly tanned skin. His trousers hung open around his erection, tenting his boxer briefs. A small wet patch darkened the pants, and Q swallowed at the entire picture.

Damn, but his handiwork was good.

James was watching him, getting his own good look at Q, who had been hard and leaking for the last ten minutes at least. He was aching to be touched, but first, he wanted something else. He knelt down, and pulled the trousers over James’ thighs, followed by the pants. His cock bobbed free, thick and red. Q licked his lips.

Above him, James groaned.

Q looked up, and caught James’ eye. Heat had consumed every bit of the usual ice in those eyes; they looked like the sky right around the very edges of the sun, white-hot and bright enough to burn. Q leaned forward, and licked the leaking tip of James’ cock.

“Jesus Christ,” James swore. Q opened his mouth and sucked his way down, taking in more, keeping his eyes fixed above. His tongue traced the slit, and then he dragged his lips down and back up the length, leaving behind a wet trail. He curled his hand around the base and did it again, and James’ eyes fluttered shut.

“I’ve always wondered if that mouth was good for more than just cheeky back talk,” he muttered, and Q hummed in retaliation. James doubled over, and grasped Q’s hair. Q swirled his tongue around the head, and sucked softly while James’ hips pumped slowly in and out. 

His own erection was growing painful between his legs. He reached down to alleviate some of the feeling when James suddenly pulled away.

“None of that,” he said roughly. He hauled Q up to his feet, and stepped out of the rest of his clothes. Naked, he led Q to the bed, and laid them both down.

He kissed Q carefully, licking the taste of himself out of Q’s mouth while he lined them up. When James’s spit-slick cock touched his own, Q gave a yelp that dissolved into a moan. James chuckled, and curled his hand around the both of them. 

Together, they moved in the circle of his fingers, gasping and grunting in equal measure. The kisses grew more frantic until James bit down on Q’s shoulder and came between their bodies. The hot pulse of cum had Q following right after him. His body stretched out into a long, hard line, and he grasped James’ hand around them. His hips snapped forward, and then he came over their fingers, and slumped against the bed.

When their breath had slowed, Q used the sheet to clean them off. James caught his arm, and pulled him under his chest. Hovering over him, James traced his fingers over the ink on Q’s arms again, following the lines as they disappeared over his shoulders.

“Going to ask me when I got them?” Q asked. “Or why?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Q looked up at the man above him. His blond hair stood up in short spikes. Q liked it that way. On his collarbone was a lovebite that didn’t look like it would be fading anytime soon. He liked that, too. James raised an eyebrow at him.

“I will ask about this one, though.” He tapped the compass rose on Q’s chest. “It wasn’t done at the same time as the others.”

“No. That one was my first.” Q shrugged. “I was looking for a direction. Very cliche, but I can’t bring myself to regret it.”

“Hmmm.” James leaned down and kissed the rose, and then moved down farther still to lick Q’s nipple. Q shivered.  
He opened his mouth, but James lifted his head and said,

“If you say one word about my age and needing time to recuperate, I’ll not bring you back another piece of tech for a year.”

“Like you would anyway,” Q said. He let his head fall back, and closed his eyes. James resumed his exploration of Q’s chest. “What I was going to say was, I think your method worked. Adrenaline. Definitely starting to wear off.” He yawned.

James moved down farther, running his lips along Q’s hipbones, and ghosting breath over his navel. His thumbs worked small circles in the groove where Q’s legs met his hips, and he let them fall open more. James kissed down one leg, and then pulled it over his shoulder.

His hands slipped under Q’s arse, and he buried his nose into the curls around Q’s cock. It was starting to take an interest in the proceedings again. James kissed it, and then moved his mouth to Q’s bollocks.

Q moaned, and clutched the sheets in his fingers. Slowly, James used his lips and tongue, dipping farther and farther until he found what he was looking for.

At the first gentle swipe of tongue across his arsehole, Q gasped, and his hips bucked. James’ tongue circled, and his hands gently pulled Q back in towards his face. 

“Oh, god, James,” Q said. He did it again, circling and then another flat swipe, and Q babbled,

“Yes, oh yes, James, yes.”

He pulled Q’s other leg over his shoulder, and flickered his tongue back and forth over the hole, until Q was completely hard again, and sobbing out words that made no sense. James leaned back. His cheeks were shiny, and he looked utterly satisfied with himself. He took Q into his mouth, and quickly sucked him down to the root. Q gaped up at the ceiling, and shook as he came for the second time.

He heard James get up, and then felt him return when a warm washcloth was cleaning up the remnants of their earlier mess. He crawled up next to Q, who was starting to feel like a giant pot of liquid that someone had poured into a bag.

“What about you?” Q mumbled.

“Sleep,” James said. He kissed Q softly, and pulled him into his chest. Q curled up like a cat in the embrace. The last thing he felt was James removing his glasses.

~

When Q awoke, it was 4:49 in the morning. James Bond was in his bed, arms crossed behind his head on the pillow. 

“Oh, good,” Q said, “I wasn’t hallucinating.”

James raised an eyebrow at him, but Q was too busy digging a laptop out of the side table drawer. He put on his glasses, and typed in the security code. MI6 files filled the screen.

“Is this the infamous _pyjamas-before-your-first-tea_ moment?” James asked.

“Tea,” Q agreed, his fingers flying over the keyboard. A second later, he pressed the space bar, and sat back with a satisfied look on his face.

“Did you find the one that got away?”

Q nodded, and said,

“It was obvious, really, I just couldn’t see it before. But you know, I think a subtle explosion is too good for him. How do you fancy a trip to Alaska, James?”

“Sounds cold. But fun. When do I leave?”

Q looked at the man in his bed, lingering on the spots where his arms became shoulders became pectoral muscles. Bright blue eyes watched him, amused. He put aside the laptop and said,

“Right after I’m done with you.”


End file.
